


Ringlet

by Transistance



Series: Butterflies [6]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Asexual Character, Bathing/Washing, Canon Compliant, Canon Trans Character, Early Mornings, F/M, Memories, Non-Explicit Sex, Origami, Past Relationship(s), Reflection, Relationship Discussions, Sharing a Bed, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>August is a good season for any kind of journey, physical or emotional.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. mnemon

**Author's Note:**

> This got far longer than it was supposed to be, sorry!

Grell is trying to do her paperwork – really, she is. Unfortunately it is _very_ easy to get distracted, and at some point in the recent past she has stopped filling the forms out and started folding them up. Her hands are moving without conscious direction, mind somewhere else – it's a neat little game that Alan taught her once, claiming it to be a useful method of calming down, but upon completion of the fourteenth little paper butterfly Grell does wonder if she has a problem.

Someone scatters an array of knocks against the door, causing Grell to drop her train of thought and look up as they walk right in. It isn't Will, obviously, but it's her next best friend. Ronald grins at her and tosses an envelope onto her desk. “Mail from an admirer, Senior.”

“An _admirer_?” she repeats in false amazement, and then drops the act with a smirk. “You'll have to give me more of a clue than that, I'm afraid.”

Her junior doesn't, but his eyebrows dance. “I think it'll be good news.” This bodes well, and Grell is genuinely curious as she pulls open the envelope. The letter within is short, curt and oddly courteous. It says _Grell Sutcliff,_

_I have been charged with delivering documents to the German office and require an aide. Given that you have been there before and know a large number of the staff, I thought you might enjoy the change of scenery. If you would accompany me I would be grateful._

_Yours,_  
William T Spears, London Collections Manager.  


Grell reads the letter twice, and then stares up at Ronald. “He gave you this himself?” Surely it is some sort of bizarre joke. Surely this isn't an apology?

“Fresh from the boss-man not ten minutes ago,” he replies breezily, still grinning. “What's it say, then?”

“I need a new wardrobe.” This doesn't seem to be the expected answer, but Grell ploughs right through whatever questions Ronald wants to ask. “I'll need clothes for travelling – a new coat, maybe a trench; what's German fashion sitting at these days, do you know? I haven't been out there since the thirties-”

“You're going to Germany?” This doesn't seem to be what he'd expected. “When?”

“I – don't know.” She falters, reads the letter again, but it remains lacking in this rather vital information. It's not the sort of thing that would be forgotten, which suggests that he's omitted it deliberately. Is that an attempt to force a conversation? “Will and I are both going.”

“Together?” Ronald's grin reappears. “Sounds like he wants to treat you.”

“I doubt it.” He gives her a very quizzical and mildly disbelieving look, so she elaborates. “We're still not really... talking. He's been needing time, Ronnie, space – this is just an olive branch, not the whole rainbow. It's an opportunity to redeem myself rather than any notion of forgiveness yet.”

“Redeem _your_ self?” The utter incredulity in his voice is almost funny. “Senior, with all due respect, it's not you who should be apologising to him. No way. He's-”

“He's doing his best,” Grell snaps. “You have to understand – the actions of mine that merely horrified most were crippling to him. We were _lovers_ , sweetie, we were _perfect_ , bound together through fate and love as the tide is to the moon, or insects to flowers, or – just – you saw how close we were! _I_ broke that trust, not him. And whilst he hasn't exactly been _kind_ since then, I can and have forgiven that of him already.”

Ronald is openly staring now, lips slightly apart in disbelief. “...Grell,” he says, which never bodes well. “Look, I'm not going to pretend that I understand how you two worked before – this. I know that you were close, and I get that, believe me. But he's barely spoken to you since then – and I've seen him hurt you more times than I can count, more viciously than I know how to comprehend.” He spreads his hands, and Grell wonders if she’ll hate herself if she knocks him cold. “I'm just saying – you don't have to be so quick to let him get away scot free with all that. It isn't _right_.”

“That's not your call,” she retorts, as flatly as she's able. “Your concern's _sweet_ , and I do appreciate it. But I will decide when and where the line is drawn, okay?”

“...Sure. Just don't get yourself hurt.”

Grell snorts at the notion, and shakes her head. People never seem to worry about her until they're trying to prevent her from doing things, and then suddenly they're all advice and caring. She has more important things to do now than reassure him, though, so she simply pats his shoulder and says, “I'll be _fine_ ,” on her way out.

William wants her to go to him, obviously, otherwise he'd have delivered the request himself. It's an oddly tentative gesture for someone usually so direct – it gives her the option of sending a message back on paper herself, or through Ronald, or indeed not show at all. On the other hand, perhaps he simply knows her better than that.

His office isn't far from hers. Getting there is no trouble, and when she arrives she finds that, for what must be the first time, the door is propped open. This removes her ability to linger outside and debate her life choices for any length of time, so Grell touches her knuckles to the door to announce her presence and steps inside.

“Will-”

“Two weeks from today,” he says, without looking up. “We'll only be staying a day, so you needn't pack heavy.”

Grell wonders briefly if she should resent that he assumes her agreement, but decides to let it go. It's not as though he's wrong. “What time do you want me to meet you?”

“Before six am.” He takes a moment to finish a line, and then pushes his glasses up before finally meeting her eyes. “There's a ship crossing the channel at eight; we should reach the Munich office some time before midnight. Once there we'll exchange reports with their manager – Fischer, do you remember him? – which will hopefully be a brief enough encounter that we can make the five thirty train back to Calais, and from there across to London again.” This is delivered in a tone which suggests that William hasn't considered the fact that that's a solid twenty four hour plan.

“That's a long day,” Grell notes, carefully, just in case there's any hope of breaking it down. She doesn't bother to answer the question about Fischer. It would be delightful to be able to forget. “When are you intending to fit in details like eating? Sleeping?”

William looks at her as though this is a remarkably stupid question. “I can't speak for you, but I personally see few better opportunities to rest than a ten hour train journey. If neither transportation offers food, I'm sure that the dispatch will have some. It's not going to be a fun little jaunt, Grell – it's a business trip. We are both needed here enough as it is.”

“I know that!” Nonetheless it's exciting, and its reality has suddenly sunk in. She claps her hands together and William rolls his eyes, but he doesn't scorn her for the action so she grins and grins and grins.

The fortnight passes slowly. Paperwork piles only seem to grow, but Grell works her way through them diligently and spends her evenings and lunch hours picking and choosing clothes. It's a crying shame that they'll only be there for a day, but her carrying capacity is easily high enough to take several outfits _just in case_. Ronald helps, not quite reluctantly, and Grell is waiting on the office steps a little blearily by the time that five am on the day itself rolls around. William arrives ten minutes after she does, still very early, and looks slightly put out by her punctuality.

Arriving early allows them to set off early; there are carriages available even at this hour, for a price, so they set off in good time and make their way down to Dover. The cabbie is chatty from up on his seat, weirdly so, which is a blessing because it gives Grell the chance to shake herself awake properly and practice her socialising game. William stares out of the window and ignores them both. Neither call him out on it.

When they reach the port they've a fair wait ahead of them before the boat is due to leave; Grell decides to find a breakfast, if anywhere is open this early in the morning. Offering to bring William back food goes down badly, but when she proffers a coffee (having had to jump upward to Dover's dispatch, quite against regulation but all mortal establishments had been _shut_ ) he accepts it and thanks her. More than half an hour is wasted just waiting on the pier, William sitting crosslegged with his drink held close like an old friend and Grell leaning on the fence staring out to sea. Attempting conversation has not failed, not completely, but she has decided that she would rather be ignored completely than be given _hmm_ s in answer to everything she says. It's difficult to blame him, though. Even with caffeine, it's been a horribly early start to the day.

They leave England sharp at seven, and Grell watches the coast recede for a while. William disappears, most likely to skulk below deck somewhere due to his aversion to sailing. The distance isn't nice, but there are humans enough to find conversation in – even though they are boring and mundane and think her odd, they are amusement enough to set her mind more at ease. The sky brightens inch by inch. The sea below deepens in hue. The landmass behind them disappears.

It's only a five hour trip. Grell flirts her way around the deck once or twice, gets bored, and tries and fails to find something to do that doesn't involve people. Most of them are traders of some sort, holders of small businesses, although there's a few travellers and one old woman who only speaks French. Dull. The whole journey is dull. She winds up spending most of it with her nose in a book, having decided that it's still too early in the outing to try and reconcile with Will. He won't be in a good mood for some time yet, certainly not whilst at sea, and Grell doesn't intend to shoot herself in the foot before negotiations have even begun.

The ship, joy of joys and wonder of nautical wonders, docks just ten minutes before the train is due to leave. It also happens to be a ten minute walk from the port to the station. This journey is brisk, made no easier by the fact that the afternoon is turgid with people and carriages and horses and traffic. They don't quite have to jog, but it's a close run thing. The train is busy and stinks of smoke.

William does exactly as promised and falls asleep, after an hour or so. It's a slow descent, at first – his eyes drop, and he leans slightly to one side, startling occasionally and trying to refocus on the paper. After about twenty minutes of failing to turn a page he gives in, bundling his scarf into a makeshift pillow against the wall of the carriage and letting himself go limp against it. It takes a while, but his face does ease and his breaths do deepen until they stop entirely.

_Sleep is for the dead, after all_ , Grell thinks, and finds herself bearing a rather fond smile. She'd glad that he isn't awake to see it. It seems to be the only time that he can actually reach peace, in sleep; all harshness is lost to his face, all armour flown. Even though he's all that distance across the carriage, she can pretend for a time that he hasn't fallen so badly out with her – that this is just another outing, working together not out of necessity but because they enjoy one another's company. It's easy to do.

(The last time that they took this trip they had sat together, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her back. The open affection had made both of their mentors uncomfortable, she knows, but it hadn't mattered then and only matters now because she fancies that perhaps it wasn't disgust that she saw in them – perhaps it was only loneliness.)

It's a long journey. Grell finishes her book. The afternoon becomes evening, and the evening becomes night; a spectacular sunset blooms and dies outside the window, all carmine and fuchsia and orpiment wounds seeping from the clouds. The rocking motion of the train is unbroken but for the occasional stop, and does indeed gently encourage sleep. Grell squeezes her eyes shut a few times, determined to stay awake, and considers William's quiet.

He's just– 

(– easy to love, she discovers. Because although it takes a while to realise that his cold frigidity isn't an offensive front, once she has done so he's actually almost amicable. For Grell – at this point a very lonely young man bereft of both loved ones and simple _friends_ – it is a lifeline. The teasing and abuse that floats around her stings him in equal volume, for entirely different reasons. If she's too loud he's too quiet; if she's too brash he's too disinterested. If she's too colourful, alive and brilliant – he's far too dead. But instead of clawing back with the uncoordinated rage that fuels her, he manages somehow to surpass them through brushing them off in a manner that gifts him an air of superiority, hold himself slightly above the others in order to escape. It makes him hated, yes, but very shortly he is left alone.

Grell doesn't know whether to be impressed or put off. She has already decided to have him by then, because he seems the sort to be difficult, a bit of a conquest if she can get into his bed. And then he moves on her first, at the party, and everything becomes inverted.

It's a nice snog, in fairness. Will moves carefully but without hesitation, and although they're both drunk and sloppy it's the first time that someone else has kissed her first. That he's proven easy makes him abruptly undesirable, though, so she's the one who pulls back – and is delighted when he doesn't take offence. They spend the night getting to know one another, sex off the table as soon as she realises that he's not actually being forward, and even as his lips touch her skin she shrouds him in butterflies.

Kissing is enjoyable, but it's for flesh relationships. It's sensual, leading, a pre-taste to having a body in full. And even though she has slept with William a handful of times, it's not the focal point of their relationship. Grell saves her lips for the men that she beds, and gives her partner the dubious affection of near-platonic touches and lashes soft on skin.

She isn't going to kiss him until there is no conceivable chance of any future together. And in spite of _everything_ that has happened, that moment hasn't come to pass yet.)

There's a delay on the tracks. They arrive in Munich two hours late, in the still grey buzz of two am, local time; of the twelve hours spent in the little rattle-trap compartment, William has managed to sleep ten. He had woken thirty minutes before they had disembarked, still looking weary, and went back to his paper.

The city has changed and modernised, of course, as human settlements are wont to do; they haven't been here since they were juniors, taken out on an exchanged internship. The dispatch, when they get to it, has remained much the same.

Fischer is waiting for them in the foyer; he's still got that awful messy beard and life enough to make up for anyone else's lack. At this time of morning he's got no right to be any less a shambling zombie than anyone else, and yet he manages to wring both of their hands with an expression to match Grell's best. “Boys!” he booms, as though they're still fresh out of the academy, and possibly also eight years old and blood relatives. She intends to let this slide – because he hasn't seen them since she was exactly that, and it can always be discussed quietly (or at least not in public) later – but to her surprise William makes a sharp motion across his own throat and Fischer startles. “...And woman?” he adds after a moment of staring between the two of them, and then claps a hand to Grell's shoulder and laughs.

It's painfully obvious that Will is uncomfortable around the older reaper – although they both occupy the same job title, Fischer must have two centuries' more experience than anyone in their dispatch; he's also loud and brash and over-friendly, like a very affectionate if slightly annoying bloodhound. Like Grell, almost, but without a bed of hatred and bloodlust and perversion to ruin his reputation. William attempts to hand over the documents and escape. Fischer exclaims that he's having _none_ of that and demands to know how they've been, whether London is fairing well, what they think of recent politics, if either of them have juniors yet (he's _delighted_ when told about Ronald), how their Collections numbers are, how their old mentors are doing, and – _eventually_ – details about the demon and his master and why they're on this side of the Channel and what they're doing and whether London has any intention of culling Sebastian before he goes too far, one way or another. It's a long and draining conversation, made far worse by the fact that Grell can see the sky lightening again over the man's shoulder. There's no dawn chorus, thank God, but _how_ had she forgotten Fischer's obscene ability to chat without cessation? 

At seven o'clock he says, “Goodness, though, you must be starving by now!” and although William shakes his head immediately Grell really just wants the talking to stop and foolishly agrees to breakfast. Her body is very grateful. Her partner is very not. He shoots her glances across the cafeteria table that drip hate potent enough that they must surely ruin the mornings of everyone in the room.

This only sets them back another hour. Once they've eaten the Munich manager finally accepts the paperwork that Will has been trying to hand over all morning, and after skimming over it says, “Alright. Sascha's got ours – it's been one of their cases. Let's go and drop in on them; their office is just this way.” He leads the way through corridors, a little tighter than London's hallways, until they arrive at a fairly nondescript door. Fischer knocks on it, calls, “Sascha? The English are here,” and then pushes it open.

The room looks just like any other office; a desk, a chair, several filing cabinets. It is also wholly uninhabited.

Fischer looks at the nameplate on the door. Then he looks at the desk again, frowns, and checks his watch. “Ah, we've just missed them,” he says, and Grell swears that she sees one of William's forehead veins actually burst. 

Still, Will manages to hold a neutral tone. “Out on a reap, by chance?”

“Yes. They can't have left more than ten minutes ago.” To his credit, he does look guilty. “Do you know the Black Forest? There's a little village called Wolfsschlucht – the demon Michaelis is active over there, so Sascha and Rudgar have been in and out periodically, keeping an eye on things. It's a–” He breaks off for a moment to check his to-die list, frowning again – “Hilde Dickhaut today. I'll send a bird out to let them know that you two are going to catch up with them, shall I?” Fischer leaves, in some hurry. Grell raises her eyebrows at William.

“The Black Forest as in...”

“As in half way back the distance we've just come,” he replies, with a slight huff. “Honestly. I respect him as much as anyone, but he really doesn't know the first thing about time-keeping.”

“Well, we'll just have to catch up with them.” She puts one hand on his shoulder, light enough that it should be easily displaced, and adds, “Do you think that he'll mind if we leave without saying goodbye?”

“No, although I'm not certain that we should attempt to jump all the way there. You don't know exactly where it is, do you?”

“Don't worry,” she says, smiling properly for the first time that day as she avoids the question entirely. “I won't take you _any_ where you don't want to be, lover.” Her other arm finds his back, securing him close to her, and she moves them as far as she can in the right direction. They both stumble out of the jump bleary, and after a moment he does shake off her hand to pull himself together. The city around them is bustling and alive.

“Where are we?”

“Um – Stuttgart.” It's been a long time since she's tried to jump that far, let alone in a pair, and her head feels a bit boxed. “We can hitch a ride south, I'm sure.”

“Well done.” He's always been impressed with her ability to jump, and Grell finds herself glowing in recognition of that. She sticks very close at his side as they navigate Stuttgart, and it's easy enough to find a driver willing to take them out.

When the edge of the forest is in sight, they're dropped off. _The forest is cursed_ , they're told, which makes Grell snicker. The man gives her an offended look and leaves them to it. The search is easy enough; they merely have to follow the stench of death though the trees, and it isn't long before they find their quarry.

She can _smell_ the demon's heavy scent on the air, not yet stale, and although William must be able to as well neither of them mention it. It's a genuine pleasure to see Sascha and Rudgar again, but although Grell would have loved to linger and socialise a little longer William sees fit only to claim the files and retreat. After all the trouble of getting there, it seems very anti-climatic. Grell gives a cheery wave which she hopes conveys her affections and then they're walking again.

“How about we stop in Baden-baden?” 

This suggestion earns her a clip from his scythe, but it doesn't connect – if anything it's done to keep up appearances, because once the Germans are out of earshot Will surprises her by saying, “Fine.” 

It means that they'll have to take two trains, have to detour; certainly won't make the next ferry back to Dover. Before she can stop herself, Grell blurts, “Are you sure?”

William dips his head in a nod, and then says defensively, “I've never been.” _And I'm tired_ isn't said aloud, but hangs in the air all too obvious anyway. He's still so brusque, feigning being aloof to avoid people asking if he's okay. Still so cold, even here, even with her.

When Grell takes his hand Will doesn't stop her. There's barely been time to recover from the last jump – they've been walking constantly, and less than half an hour has passed – but she'll be damned if she can't take him at least half way.


	2. epiphron

Baden-baden is worth all of the detours in the world.

This is not due to any particular specialities offered by the town. It has a good reputation, and good baths, and the locals who run such establishments are friendly and welcoming – but that's all as to be expected. What makes it beautiful, wonderful, fantastic, unique, is simply that William seems to like it.

He doesn't say so, obviously. He's blunt but not rude to everyone they see, and once they're in the baths themselves he goes quiet – the stress seems to percolate out of him physically, the water drawing from him the strain of labours that the past few months have piled upon his head. Or possibly it's just that he hasn't had a chance to relax all day. He closes his eyes and sinks back a little, shifting into a more comfortable position as he does so.

“It's a shame that we didn't have time to chat with Rudgar and Sasch,” Grell ventures. “It would have been nice to catch up.”

“Time's a dreadful thing, Grell Sutcliff,” William mutters. “Time's a dreadful thing.”

She snorts. “You look like an old man, dear, sitting there half asleep and spouting vague wisdom like that.” It's meant to be a tease, but apparently he's past such things.

“I am an old man. We both are.”

Grell bares her teeth at him, an animalistic gesture that she knows he hates, but his eyes remain closed. “Speak for yourself,” she snaps before she can stop herself. “I'm in my _prime_.”

“Good for you.” It isn't quite snapped, but she hears his temper fray again. She doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know if she has the power anymore to soothe him rather than aggravate him, but is saved by his own intervention. “I'm sorry,” he says, quite suddenly. “Bringing you here was a mistake.”

The water is warm, the room quiet, and Grell has no idea whether she should feel guilty or betrayed. The conversation is short, fast and empty.

“...Do you need more space?”

“I can't avoid you forever.”

“No, but – you can hold off a while.”

He shakes his head. “I don't want to.”

She startles. “You've – decided? One way or the other?”

But he only shakes his head again, lifting his shoulders in a world-weary shrug. “No. I haven't.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. Not now.” He's silent for a moment, deliberating, and then says, “The train. I'll talk to you on the train. We can... discuss this.”

_This_. Does he mean the months of violence, the aggression, the alienation, the cruelty? Does he mean her cracked flirtations, her fake cheer, her weeping affection that he blocks at every turn? Does he mean the silence that she has managed almost to hold since the Campania, or the static that has flushed every encounter since Anne's death? Does he mean the fact that in a single night they broke apart eighty years of peace, or that in a single instant they could repair the damage of the past nine months? She doesn't know.

He's watching her now, eyes open but dark. A word forms on his lips, the slight movement nearly unnoticeable, but dies just as quickly. There's nothing to say. Someone else's laughter percolates through the walls, carried across the distance on the surface of the water, and William looks away.

Dusk is creeping in by the time that they leave, and Grell can recognise fatigue in herself as much as in her partner. She hasn't eaten since breakfast. The warmth has made her drowsy, and although she's certain that Will will point out that both of those make this the perfect opportunity to head home – there will be a chance both to eat and to sleep in the carriage – she doesn't want to.

“We could stay the night,” Grell suggests quietly. “There's an early morning train.”

His eyes are tired, although still manage to conjure forth a steely glare that promises pay cuts when they get back. “You can't be serious. Honestly, Grell, do you realise–”

“You're exhausted, Will! When was the last time that you slept properly?”

“Take a guess.” He stares her down, but when she is forced to look away he sighs, deeply, and relents. “Sure. Fine. Why the hell not. Let's tempt fate by staying here; who cares. It's not as though we'll be missed.”

“...Don't be like that.” It's impossible to tell whether fatigue has pushed him past his limits or if he has simply finally reached the end of his tether, but either way Will is suddenly wound up again, glutted with baseless resent. It's horrible, and she has no idea how to heal it.

“Sorry,” he says. Maybe it's sincere. Then he turns his back to her and steps away.

They share a room, and although William justifies it by claiming – very shortly – that it's far cheaper this way, Grell thinks it's a good sign. He makes no move to separate himself from her; doesn't suggest that one of them take the floor rather than the bed, nor that she leave or even turn her back as he prepares to sleep. The only thing that distances it from any other night they've spent together is the silence that clogs the air between them. She isn't the one to break it.

“Didn't bring a nightshirt,” Will murmurs, apparently to himself, and then laughs. It's a horrible, cracked sound, and he accompanies it by removing his glasses and pressing one hand against the bridge of his nose. “Christ.”

“Do you want to borrow one of mine?” The offer is immediate, not thought through – she hasn't brought more than one shirt of any kind, because it's such a short trip – but William shakes his head anyway.

“It'll be fine,” he says. “It's not as though we've never–”

Silence falls abruptly, and they both attempt to pretend to ignore one another. The bed seems an endless expanse – it's sized to fit two, but singles have always provided in the past. Too big, too empty, too quiet. William occupies one side and Grell decides that it is wise not to push her luck. This lasts... thirty minutes, tops. Then she creeps closer, crawling like some sort of huge and unwanted worm, and finds his back to her. It isn't a barrier that has stopped her before, and it isn't going to stop her now. They're in bed together, for crying out loud. She is going to make up with him.

She places a butterfly on his bare shoulder, and then another, batting her eyelashes on his skin as she encircles his torso in her arms and holds him against herself. He's very still, and she knows that he's ignoring her on purpose. “Will-”

“Please don't speak to me,” he breathes before she can get another word in. “Please, Grell, just go to sleep.”

Grell has no intention of doing anything of the sort. She has no idea what he wants – nor indeed if he actually wants anything at all, or is just drifting as loosely as she seems to be – but she'll be damned if she lets this opportunity to reconcile with him escape. So she spreads her fingers across his skin; paints gentle patterns across his chest, his stomach, until he catches her wrists before they get anywhere and repositions them further up. This isn't a bad thing. His hands don't leave hers; he traces the lines of her fingers with his own, palms warm against her, and sighs.

(She loves his body. Even though he's not as well-built as she is – never has been – he's lean and strong and real, reassuringly solid under her hands always where a lesser man may turn to mist with the night's conclusion. And she loves him; tonight that's not an afterthought.)

Her hands coax from him a change of heart; Will turns, carefully, and meets her eyes with a look that she feels should be readable but instead is just another shadow in the dark. For a time they just lie like that, motionless, frozen in time – and then aeons later he shifts, lifting one arm to comb through her hair, fanning it out behind her as though its texture fascinates him. Her skin warms under his touch, slow and fair and beautiful.

His fingers trace her sides, brush her ribs, cup her face – but each time that she thinks him about to make a deeper move he retreats again, uncertain of himself in a new way. It's imperative not to rush, imperative to ensure that this encounter is based in compassion rather than escapism; his guilt-dripping hands find comfort in the familiarity of her body, the closeness of her being, and she touches butterflies to his forehead in the knowledge that butterflies can't hurt him. He sighs, the expulsion abrupt, deep and wretched against her chest. She sighs, breathing her hopes out into the roots of his hair.

It's deep in the night when they do eventually make love; first light comes before William does. It's quiet and intimate and right, for a time, until it's over, because when he stops moving he goes too still and releases another long, hopeless breath down her front that suggests it has been held – for the duration of the night or the past nine months, maybe. Her legs are still entwined around his, his hand rests easily on her waist, but his eyes are so distant that they may as well be dead.

“Come and shower with me,” Grell urges, touching his shoulder, his neck, his hair. The inertia must be broken; he knows that as well as she, but nonetheless he doesn't move or reply. He just lies there, taking short, heavy breaths, frozen in the grasp of another monumental guilt trip whose belated birth has no place in their bed.

She hates it when he gets like this. Grell always ensures that her emotions run their full course, are released at the proper time and never, ever stultify – Will just bottles his until he bursts.

All she can do is tousle his hair, touch a butterfly kiss to his warm lips and then abandon him to clean herself. Bringing a cloth for him seems common sense, although it makes her feel as though she's caring for some sort of invalid. The fission between them gapes wide beneath her feet as she makes her way back; he's never done this before, and it's more than worrying. The first idle brushes of fear - real deep fear that something irreplaceable has been lost between them - mix with the first shards of morning that have already begun to wash the room. William has turned under the covers, perhaps in an attempt to escape her and perhaps not, but it isn't really a problem. There's space enough for her to simply climb in on the other side. His face remains flushed and unhappy, but he doesn't shy away from her, and once she's done she moves carefully close to him, chest to chest – too warm, now, but that is far preferable to being apart – and he hooks his arms around her, cradling, over-protective, as though strength of embrace alone can lift from him responsibility of everything that he has done. 

“Forgive me, my love,” she whispers, too aware of the depth in his silence. “For I have forced your heart to freeze anew.”

His hands find her cheeks, slow and careful and pleading, and then he's kissing her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theres a bit of a time lapse between this and the next installment; if anything canonical occurs that I can work into this series, it'll go in here at some later date.


End file.
